The Watchers: A Novel

by A. E. W. Mason

Here a lie was obviously needful, and I did not scruple to tell it.

"No."

Peter Tortue leaned forward to me with a shrewd glance in his keen eyes.

"You are her lover," he said. "You told her."

I lifted my eyes from his knife, looked him in the eyes, and sustained his glance.

"I am not her lover," I said; "that is a damned lie."

He did not lose his temper, but repeated:

"You told her," and George Glen looked in again with his whole face screwed into a wink.

"You said to her, 'My dear,' says you, 'there's old George,'" and at that I lost my temper.

"I said nothing of the kind," I cried. "Am I a parrot that I cannot open my lips without old George popping out of them? But what's the use of talking. Do what you will, I have done. If I had betrayed your secret, do you think I should be walking home alone, and you upon the island? But I have done. I had a bargain to strike with you, I thought to find you all at the inn--but I have done."